Monday, March 28, 2011

Just a quick update...ah I gave it away in the title....we won the Shorty Award for Art! YEAH! It was amazing...will give the full download later...so proud of all the poets and writer at One Stop Poetry and thankful so much for all the support from all of you.

Host by Aasif Mandvi from the Daily Show was hilarious. Met Jack Bauer (AKA Kiefer Sutherland), Miss USA, Jim Gaffigan, and Ali Velshi. My head is still spinning, if you cant tell.

The last couple days have been incredible, and tonight are the Shorty Awards. I will get back to regular programming tomorrow, but here are a few sights and sounds from NYC.

We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I got into the art.

Yesterday was the 37th annual Macy's Flower Show, so I dressed for the occasion.

Ok, so that is not me. The whole first floor of Macy's was covered in live flowers, which was kinda cool. Whoever decided it was a good idea to have a ten floor department story is a masochistic ... ... ... but they will be rewarded with a special poem I wrote about the experience, reminiscent of Dante's Inferno. Tune in tomorrow for that one.

The freakiest part of this whole experience was a dog show they had our front of the store where people dressed their dogs up for spring. I was about to call the authorities to report animal cruelty or a fashion disaster.

We also went to see American Idiot at the St. James yesterday afternoon. It was awesome. The music was amazing and the story/acting was great. Highly recommended.

Central park....err, nah this guy was in Toys R Us...where they also have a 4 story ferris wheel. Nuts.

Other random highlights: meeting Dustus in Times Square, having all the street hawkers calling me "Hey Mohawk", the LEGO store, Pizza, Street performers jumping over 4 people while doing a flip, pretending I was on the Apprentice while dashing through TRUMP tower, and the food.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

So where am I? New York City! We drove up yesterday and have been enjoying the city in preparation for the Shorty awards on Monday night, where One Stop Poetry is up for the #arts award.

Last night we went to the Nuyorican Poetry Cafe for a poetry slam. For those that don't know what that means, think competition poetry performance that is very crowd interactive. We waited in line (in 30 degree weather) for 90 minutes just to get in the door. To hear poetry, how crazy is that eh?

It was the semifinals in determining who would represent the state of New York in the World Finals. They rocked my face off, sick good.

All this to say, sorry I was not around yesterday and I probably wont be around today either. Thank you to all of you that have supported One Stop and given me/us this opportunity. And for all of you that each day encourage me with your words.

See you tomorrow and maybe Monday I will post some pics of me and Keifer Sutherland (for you ladies), Ms America (for you guys) or Justin Beiber (for the kids). I look forward to the ones with some of my friends I met here in the blogosphere, whether we walk away with the award or not.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

the only way out, once was,
the only way in, can't go round
to the beginning again----

doubling back creates knots on this
tangled skein we weave, counting them
like prayer beads to our transgressions,
confessions we wear on our sleeves,
merit badges with crosses we carry
as if they haven't been conquered already

like redemption's on vinyl, collecting
dust in the basement, forgiveness a
rash that bleeds when we scratch it
and hope, soap on a rope, worn to
keep us from bending over in the shower
we blame for reactions to our actions
/inactions and pray to like we buying
a ticket for the lotto----

Y is a crooked letter, no one ever
straightens, belief, a road un-easy
but leads forward, toward new days
and faith, the essence of things yet
seen, but a whole lot less shallow
than its often made out to be---

but love, now that's the cotton candy
that holds it all together, melts on your
tongue leaving fingers sticky, making
holdin' hands with your [insert the
most bigoted word you use] neighbor
all the easier---

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

the knife, the baseball bat, busted
television, cuss colored cacophony
cracking wide the night, these are
insignificant but tidbits latched onto
by neighbors, passed tongue to ear,
fear, eyes widening next time you see
them in the super market aisle---

they are not the story though, just
what we immortal-eyes in attempts
at making sense of a moment

'no' is something he doesn't hear, not
on a regular basis, but what he says
when he doesn't like what's said and the
only way to affect change is to attack
the enemy, just look at how we are
lowering gas prices in the name of
liberty, libya----

this is not the story though, just
what we immortal-eyes in attempts
at making sense of a moment

knuckles wrap wood, rear back and
let swing everything he fails to say in
the face of the man on the tv, see i
know how to get what i want, if not
you cant have what you want, grabs
a knife, gleaming smile in the clouded
kitchen light---

this is not the story though, just
what we immortal-eyes in attempts
at making sense of a moment

snarling face, he slices an arc at my
breast, air screams in the parting, an
8 second ride hoping this time the
bull doesn't give you the horns, til the
blade clatters from fingers to lino-
leum floor and disarmed , shaking, he's
howling---

this is not the story though, just
what we immortal-eyes in attempts
at making sense of a moment

we pro-create babies then cover our
failed attentions with medications and i
hold him in a whisper and the knife, the bat,
the tv set, my chest, these are all in-
significant next to the child crying out
for help, lost amid the lines of what we
consider the story---

It's One Shot Wednesday. Time to write something poetic and come join the party. Doors open at 5 pm EST.

When the highlight of your day at work is walking away from a knife attack unscathed, its not really a good day...just saying. See the lengths I go to for poetry though? smiles. Nah, I love the kids.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Spring spools through car windows, flickering in multi layered greens like 8 mm film. Trees dance on a living carpet once more, pastel petal dresses spinning, adorning the hills framing the asphalt flowing west into the valley. Our tires hum, giving them song.

"What will they have in the parade again?"

The next city over from where we live is having a St.Patrick's Day celebration. Our boys, in the back seat, can barely sit still, excitement pouring from pores thickening the air. Visions light their eyes of bright colored floats, men on stilts and candy. They always throw candy at parades, gold at the end of their rainbow.

"Just wait and see," I tease.
_____

Cold concrete closes in as we go round and round up the tight parking garage ramp until it spits us onto the roof. Four stories up, the city reclines before us, peaks and valleys of buildings on display as the car drags to a stop.

"Can we look off the side?"

Stomach turns, repeated dreams of something happening to my boys, particularly falling kick open the door between my ears. Ba dum. Ba dum. Badumbadumbadum. Heights don't bother me, heights and my boys disturbs me. Taking their hands, I lead them to the knee high guard rail and peer down the abyss.

"They look so small."

Fingers tightening against their small hands, we watch herds of emerald outfits form inadvertent lines contained by side walks, branching at each side street heading toward the promise of what is to come. Most are in green, some with large hats or face paint. A man on a riding lawn mower putters down a back alley, setting the cadence.
_____

Vikings, moustaches and beards, sneer, rattling swords on wood shields as they lead their high bow ship down the double yellow line. Faeries, gold glitter swirls from their brow down the necks, flutter wings on their back as they ride stilts above the crowd, smiling. Hawkers, wares to sell, yell for passers by to sample or touch. Cup to lip, raucously laughing groups of inebriated revelers bump and jostle as we make our way through them.

"Cotton candy! Boiled peanuts! Family tree! Hats! Costume! Jewelry!"

Ale spurts from spicket tapped kegs into cups, emptied and crushed under foot, among flowers fluttering down from above. Violin, lyre and accordion blend the back drop music, accompanied by loud cheerful voices. Old friends new and new friendships made in moments, though we may never meet again but share this canvas amid the chaos. We paint with bold colors, the Spring that fills our hearts.
____

Sun, having crossed the heavens to hug us, now weary, dips low along the mountains. Standing once more on the parking garage roof by our car, we watch the light fade. A large green balloon rocks on the breeze as it rises from fingers too loose and not quick enough to catch its escape. We are far enough away not to hear the cries of the one it left behind, to know if it was a prayer released or hope lost. It lazily makes its way toward the stars just blooming.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Concrete, chipped and pitted, worn in grooved paths where feet fall, flows between brick, periodically broken by the stems of metal flowers, lamp posts now sleeping on the edge of dawn. Without the pools they provide, the world is in black and white, waiting for the sun to come color. They call this the jungle.

It is Wednesday, you can tell by the smell. Beneath the brake dust and exhaust lies exotic spices that come from the burst embryos of trash bags. Second story dwellers, conserving energy, drop them like hydrogen bombs out window, silently so as not to let you know it is coming before the whistling grabs your attention, turning your head just in time for the splash eruption.

Men will come collect what makes it into the dumpster, sometimes even scooping the spills in flat headed shovels, tossing it in to crush, cart off to some place we don't see, monuments to our waste. Our past. Where we have been as we rush head on, grasping hands first into the future, leaving them to figure what to do with it when we get there.

This early the streets are silent except the scrape, bang of the trash man, grinding gears, grind to a halt, grinding. Cars weave around his slow progress, stirring wind in their wake. Hiss, hiss, the buses brake and clang as they clip sewer caps. And my foot steps rap.

By a corner alley cut through between buildings one sack, split, spilt out, a baby doll lays half hanging head and arm staring back with one button eye. Rice crawls across her from some days left overs, but she smiles in stitching. A toy too young, too old, too yesterday to some kid discarded.

Checking my watch, I jay walk the street and find a seat on the bus stop bench, snatching a passing piece of newspaper blowing down the sidewalk to catch up on the news from three days ago. Grind, hiss, bang. Grind, hiss, bang, bang. The dumpster comes to a stop across the street, disembarking her waste management warriors in blue coveralls to scoop and schlep the mess.

One man, bald, mops his head with a red kerchief and blows his nose, then bends to one knees drawing my eyes. Curious, I watch him fish the refuse then tenderly lift the body in his hands. He dusts her off, gentle, the whites of his teeth cracking wide catch the first glint of sun. Unzipping, he tucks the baby doll inside where it will be warm and safe until he gets home.

The bus abruptly blocks my view, its doors peeling open inviting me in and I take a new seat and watch through the window as they load the bags, empty the cans and we pull away. Who will get his treasure? Will they smile, like he, in gratitude at something new, to them, not caring where its been?

Crinkling, I fold the paper back in a neat rectangle and scan the stock market listings as if they mattered, more than passing the time until my stop.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

silence sits in the corner recliner
across the shag carpet of the
house of me, takes a swig,
then breaks itself with a belch
that would make a deaf man
shiver---whatever, i like it loud

unless you do it, cause you think
it will make your point...

so i turn the stereo up, give the
air a fist pump, drowning out
all the reasons given to give up
breathin', see no matter how bad
you got it, some ones got it worse

at least that's what they tell me,
but it doesn't take away the way
i feel inside, stuck where the
sun don't shine, behind these eyes
where memory & doubt reside---

i feel so alone in the cold
shadows of quiet...

between the ears where flowers of
hope float choked by waves of fear
sold to or bought by you, or impressed
in your chest by tsunami you never
saw coming, all skies pink in the
mourning---

the end is coming, the end is...

stop, rewind, open the door, lift
the blinds, to remind, there is a
world outside the broken down house
you built in your mind, the devastation
is real, not imagined truth, but don't
let it swallow whats left of you---

My heart is heavy for Japan and the devastation there. To me this is about the loss and return of hope, which is my prayer for them. Hard to see in the moment at times. The reference in the last line is to the belief that a single petal of a chrysanthemum in the bottom of the glass portends happiness and long life.

Monday, March 14, 2011

The sun spreads orange pink plaster across the walls of the sky, brilliance leaking through the blades of the window dressings to paint ours as well. We sit on the couch, talking, as the day closes around us.

We spent the afternoon at the park, playing hide and seek on play ground equipment. Spring breathed a warm gift on us today drawing people from their homes. Dog walkers. Kids giggling with glee, escaped prisoners from winters incarceration. A couple walked hand in hand, oblivious to it all, lost in their own attentions.

Exhausted, we found a seat under the arms of a tree and worked through some exercises to help him manage his frustration level. He doesn't understand why people act a certain way. It frustrates him, he responds the only way he knows, the way he has been taught.

"Ok, I am ready. Watch."

He walks down a dark hall, crouching slightly to avoid being seen. A moustached man in fatigues steps around the corner, raising a machine gun. A heads up display zeroes in on the mans body, offering options. Quickly each are highlighted, then the mans head explodes, a fountain of brain matter and skull fragments erupts in slow motion. The body falls like a marionette whose strings have been cut.

He turns and smiles, pausing the game.

"Head shots are worth more points."

Eight years old. Brown hair. Blue eyes. He gets frustrated when he does not understand why people act the way they do.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Thumbing the fag, slow burning between his fingers, he watches the ashes fall into the small empire he has created along the window sill. Soon enough a breeze will snake its way through and destroy his creation. Life is fleeting like that, but he pays it no mind, flicking his gaze the line between sun and shadow creep down the cobblestones lane below.

His chin rests in the palm of his other hand, fingertips playing in the curls of a week of beard absently. He likes the texture and the sensation of touch on his face. The little finger slips along his lip where his tongue pokes out to meet it, the tip tracing the hard edge of the nail. While he is cognizant of these things happening, if you asked him later he would not remember.

The opposing side of the street is now brilliant, blinding in the sunlight. Pink flowers drape among their emerald vines round a window box directly across from him, mouthing arias to their life giver. Through the glass behind them, the room is empty and he feels more at home there than the beauty that adorns them.

Bringing the tapered fag to his lips, he draws the warmth into him. Holding it, he lets it swirl within his inmost parts then releases it to dance as it slowly rises, disappearing. Bird's dark forms cut through the light, vanishing, those that cast them never seen, somewhere above the roof line.

The soft putter and whine of a scooter turns his eyes south, passed the flags and coloured awnings of back street shops, seldom visited by anyone that was not local or had a particular need. He waits, listening to the sound grow, rewarded as a lone rider rounds the corner on a blue grey scooter. He follows their progress with his gaze until they draw to a stop by three stairs leading to a wooden door just down from his.

His body whispers in his ear the desire to be warm, his hand responds pushing the fag into his mouth, inhaling, releasing, but he barely notices, keeping his eyes on the dismounting rider. Blue jeans, snug at the hips, hugging legs to the knees then flaring around well scuffed black boots. She peals the leather coat from her form, revealing a white shirt, bronze skin contrast around the low neck line.

He inhales as she removes her helmet, loosing the hair within to drape tenderly around her neck. Her back remains to him as she mounts the steps, lock rattling as she deftly inserts the key, twisting then releasing. She disappears within, closing the door. His fingers tremor as he takes one last pull on the nub between them, then tamps it against the wood sill.

Never seeing her face, he dreams her in the evenings. Each night it changes, leaving him unsatisfied and hungry on waking. Where does she go at night that she returns so early? Does that soft spot behind her ear smell of last nights musk? Do her lips pout as she chews whatever she eats at lunch? Does she know he watches each morning? Does she smile at the game of enticing him?

Chair legs stutter against the floor as he turns to the desk. Retrieving a forgotten porcelain cup, bitter cold coffee floods his mouth. He winces, placing it once more by the side of his computer. Both hands now push into his face, then back along his forehead into the nest of unkempt hair, the pent angst expelling from his mouth in a haggard breath.

Mountains of paper lay siege to any open space on the desk around the computer. He breathes, a heartbeat. On the wall hangs a picture of a family he once knew. He breathes, a heartbeat. A plate, congealing remnants of last nights reheated spaghetti clinging to its edges, hangs precariously balanced at a paper cliff's edge, perfuming the stale air with its garlic aftertaste. He breathes, a heartbeat.

Feverishly his eyes widen, fingers strike keys and a thin smile slowly creases his face, as he ejaculates, across the screen, the story of the life he wished to live if he had not married his words. Tack-tack-tack-tacktacktacktacktacktack...

i am not naive, pride hollow, enough to believe it will grow just because i laid my hands to it, birds wait in the trees, worms turn and some just die, despite our efforts, because that is what we do, in light of life's menagerie. adorning my head in ash to remember those fallen, unborn, stolen, because it wont weigh me down, i hear them already, watching from perch and dirt, waiting for sleep to overtake, but i keep moving.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Osiris emblazons twin tongues
adorning his feet, tap-tap-tapping
out the beat, cypher worms in
his brain, coiling nests, bass echoes
on membrane, that would drive
some of you insane---

but to this boy-man, it fuels
fingers, cracking rhyme on note-
book parchment paper, a clay tablet
stylus, his amber eyes cast to & fro
across would be Apollos, roller
blading on winged feet around
the rink---

but he does not skate, just sits
in the neon rainbow glow, scribbling
fiddling words into place, capturing
moments of back alley shadow
hustles, proven muscle in tattooed
teardrops, Shiva dismissed on
the lips of hope's kiss---

don't confuse him as Horus, his
voice is chorus, a choice to carve
his life sentences while he awaits
deliverance to flee, out of Egypt,
on Tenth Street, and these words
set him free as he captures
the story---

greater than the underworld glory
branding the tongues of the shoes
on his feet, he finds the beat, finds
the beat, in his own brand of
silence---

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

we dont like to think that way, spending much
of our teen years trying to find new ways to kill
ourselves and the remainder avoiding it. we
legislate what we can...but then again rules were
made to be broken, at least that is what we think,
when we don't like to think

we are born old enough to die.

crunching can crinkles
melodic echoes accompanied by
boasts and jest, the beating
of chest, i am man, hear me
i know what i am doing and
who's to argue, minds six sheets
in the wind sailing for some
uncharted island while we

laugh, punch shoulders, tell
stories about our conquests
each growing inches in moments
til they are as large as our ego
so we let him go

it's only a mile, he'll be there
and back before you know it,
he's done it before

and you think you know whats
coming, the crunhing can fore-
shadowing his car smoking,
upended, body twisted, bended
another statistic, but no

he made it and everyone cheered
as if he just won the super bowl
and was on his way to disney, you
see fate doesn't always catch us
when it could, or teach us to
change direction as we should,
knock on wood, but could it
have changed the ending

it was only beginning, but no
one saw it coming, except his
little brother, who saw how cool
he was...he was...he was...right
up until his turn came to learn....

we are born old enough to die.

and the crunching can crinkled
crinkled...
crinkled...One Shot Wednesday - the place to get your poetic voice on...write a poem, come join us. It all begins at 5 pm EST.